


Can't choose what stays and what fades away

by CirilEowyn



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Blood and Gore, First Kiss, First Time, Let's Write Sherlock, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-09
Updated: 2013-06-09
Packaged: 2017-12-14 11:21:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,970
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/836336
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CirilEowyn/pseuds/CirilEowyn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for challenge 1 of tumblr's Let's Write Sherlock!<br/>After a nearly disastrous case, Sherlock and John share a tense taxi ride back to Baker Street. With emotions running high, they finally arrive back at 221B, and then… things get heated and bloody.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Can't choose what stays and what fades away

**Author's Note:**

> My thanks goes to LadyPrydian who was so kind to beta and made this story so much better. The story wasn't brit-picked so if you see something, let me know.  
> The title is from the lyrics of "No light, no light" by Florence and the Machine.

“Stop right there. Don’t move!” John is pointing his gun with a steady hand at their suspect while Sherlock circles around the man, ready to tackle him to the ground. Police sirens are sounding from afar, but by the time Lestrade and his team arrive this should already be over. They’ve been on the trail of this murderer for nearly three days. After killing and basically mauling his wife with his bare hands, he had gone underground into the sewer tunnels. A trail of three badly mutilated people, unrelated pedestrians that he had randomly pulled from the street, had led them to his hiding spot.

The man had made a mad dash out of the tunnel and onto Lambeth Bridge, nearly getting hit by a car while crossing the street. Standing in the darkness between the old-fashioned lanterns he growls and shouts incomprehensible abuse at his pursuers and soon-to-be captors. John and Sherlock are inching closer and closer to their suspect. John shouts again, directing the man’s attention towards him and Sherlock uses the chance to tackle him from behind. There’s a short struggle, and to John’s surprise the smallish man manages to free himself and without a moment’s hesitation jumps over the railing.

Sherlock is slow in getting to his feet, but John is quickly by his side and helps him up. Together they look down into the dark water, but the surface remains unbroken as it carries the man downstream.

“Jesus, what did he do that for,” John asks. “In his condition, at this time of the year, jumping into the Thames is pretty much suicide.”

Their chase at an end, he turns towards Sherlock and checks him over for injuries. “How did he throw you off? I thought you’re a black belt in some martial art? A guy like that should have been easy for you.” Taking off his gloves Sherlock shows John a small bloody wound circled by round indentations. “He bit me,” he spits out angry. Sherlock’s mortally offended expression brings a smile to John’s face, which is momentarily mirrored by the detective.

“We’d better disinfect this properly back home. Humans have some of the most aggressive bacteria in their mouths. I hope your tetanus shot is still up to date?” Before Sherlock can even answer Lestrade’s car, sporting a flashing blue light, stops next to them and the obviously pissed off detective steps out of it, already pointing a finger at them. “You two! I told you to keep me informed. What is wrong with you!”

“John texted you. So we did keep you informed,” Sherlock is back to his aloof self, no trace of anger at having the suspect disappear between their fingers left on his face. “You’ll find your suspect in the Thames. Probably best to call in the divers.” He turns around without giving Lestrade the chance to reply and pulls John along with him, already raising a hand to call a cab. They’re not even off the bridge before one stops.

“Baker Street 221B,” John says and they’re on their way back home. They’re still high-strung by the chase, hearts beating fast, but exhaustion nears unstoppable and with a steady pace. As the tension slowly drains out of their bodies, they slump slightly into their seats. A horn blares and their cabby swerves to avoid hitting a pedestrian that steps out onto the street without looking. John quite suddenly finds himself in Sherlock’s lap. While their cabby curses colorfully, John excuses himself quite bashfully, a pink tinge rising in his cheeks. With his face pressed into Sherlock’s groin the hard bump there was unmistakable.

John turns away from Sherlock and grabs the handle for the unlikely event that the incident repeats itself. He tries to focus on London passing by while an awkward silence fills the cab. John resolves to never mention this to anyone ever, least of all Sherlock. But, even as embarrassed as he is, he can’t quite stop thinking about it.

After all it is “married to my work” Sherlock sitting there right next to him with a hard on. Sherlock, who in their long acquaintance, has never shown any interest in sex at all. Maybe Donovan was right about Sherlock “getting off” on this, but with trousers cut like that John would have noticed if it had happened before. He’s not that un-observant. Not that he’s staring at Sherlock’s crotch while they’re out. Or at home. But that’s something he would have seen, he’s sure of it.

The cab stops outside of 221B and Sherlock is inside before John even realises they’ve arrived. Grumbling he gets out his wallet and pays the cabby who’s still moaning about “all those crazies roaming the streets lately.”

“It’s like they’re crawling out of their fuckin’ holes as soon as it’s dark,” he laments, but John’s mind is already somewhere else. After the cab drives off he stands in front of the door and debates leaving Sherlock some time to “deal with his problem”, but fuck this, it’s late, he’s tired and he wants nothing more than a hot shower and a kip that’s at least 12 hours without interruptions.

Resolved John takes the steps up to their flat two at a time and practically storms into their sitting room. To his surprise it’s not empty as suspected. Sherlock is sitting slumped in his chair, legs spread and stretched out in front on him and his head lolling back on his neck, unseeingly staring at their ceiling. His hands are hanging loosely by the sides of the chair doing absolutely nothing. John has a full view of the now angry red bite mark, which brings him back into reality. He becomes aware that he’d been standing in the doorway staring at Sherlock with his mouth open, which is a bit ridiculous, even for them.

Sighing he gets the first aid kit, kneels next to his flatmate and takes Sherlock’s hand to check the wound. It’s surprisingly warm, considering Sherlock’s abysmal circulation. Gently he cleans the wound with antiseptic and puts on a band-aid. A bit worried about Sherlock’s lack of reaction he places a hand on his brow to check his temperature. A weary sigh leaves him. As suspected Sherlock has a fever. John gets up to get a glass of water and some paracetamol. When he returns Sherlock still hasn’t moved.

It’s normal for Sherlock to crash after a case, but nothing about this listlessness feels normal. John can’t put a finger on it, but it worries him. With what they go through on cases, it’s usually John who ends up sick, even if Sherlock is the one foregoing sleep and food. Sherlock seems impervious to something as banal as the common cold or the flu. John carts his hand through the other man’s hair and then gently pulls his head up so Sherlock is looking at him. Confusion flickers across his features before it is masked again. Still holding his head up John points at the glass of water and, when Sherlock finally moves his hand, gives him the paracetamol. He downs the medicine dry and ignores the water, the twat.

Not looking at John Sherlock finally speaks up. “I have no idea why it’s there. I haven’t had an erection since going through puberty. If I ignore it, it should go away; I’d appreciate if you’d do the same.”

“What, ignore it or go away?” John can’t help grinning at hearing these words.

Surprised Sherlock looks up at him. He studies him silently and seems to come to a conclusion. “You’re not put off? No exclamations about your heterosexuality?” he asks.

“I told you, it’s all fine. Whatever floats your boat.” They look into each-other’s eyes, trying to gauge what the other is thinking for an entirely inappropriate amount of time. Just as Sherlock opens his mouth to speak, John interrupts him with a brisk “Tea! Then bed,” and turns around towards the kitchen.

The moment they shared just now was a bit too intense for John. He realises that he is fine with Sherlock’s attraction for him, even a bit flattered. Busying himself with putting the kettle on, preparing two mugs and searching for something edible in the fridge, he doesn’t notice when Sherlock creeps up on him. He finds himself encircled by arms and pressed against the counter. John freezes on the spot, breath escaping him in a huff. Sherlock’s whole body is pressing against his back. The heat penetrates through his thick jumper and pools in an entirely inappropriate spot. But then, this seems a natural reaction as his flatmate is also, quite inappropriately, pressing his erection against his butt.

“I know you’ve thought about it. I see the way you look at me when you think I won’t notice.” Sherlock’s breath tickles the hair behind John’s ear and his deep voice reverberates in John’s skull. Involuntarily, his eyes close and he leans back into Sherlock. He can smell the sweet and cloy sweat clinging to Sherlock as he’s burning up behind him. For some reason the smell is even more of a turn on than anything else so far.

“No, I didn’t,” John says stubbornly, turning his head and catching Sherlock’s lush lower lip between his own. He twists until he’s facing his flat mate completely and playfully pulls at his lip before letting it go. Sherlock’s appreciative gaze, pupils blown, is more than worth stepping out of this comfort zone. “I’m thinking about it now.” John has only a moment to enjoy Sherlock’s look of surprise before he attacks him with the unstoppable force of an avalanche. Suddenly all he can hear, see, smell and taste is Sherlock.

Blanketed by Sherlock everything else becomes unimportant. John can’t say that he never thought about how attractive Sherlock is, but this... he never imagined this. Their tongues meet and it’s a revelation of the flesh. Sherlock bites John’s lip and the blood mingles in their kiss and it’s so intensely hot that John thinks he could come just from this. But there’s no way he’s going to let that happen in their kitchen. With a practiced move he switches positions with his flatmate/soon-to-be-lover and pulls him towards Sherlock’s bedroom. They topple into bed and time stops for a while.

*****

John wakes as a weight pushes down on his leg, effectively trapping him. It takes him a moment to remember where he is and once realisation hits he opens his eyes to see Sherlock looming over him. Straddling his legs. John can feel a headache approaching with vengeance and damn him if he isn’t going down with a fever as well.

“Sherlock, as much as I’d love another round, I need some sleep first. So get the fuck off me, please,” he says with a voice hoarse from sleep. An incomprehensible groan is his only answer from Sherlock. Suddenly worried, John reaches out for the switch on the bedside lamp. The light illuminates Sherlock’s sallow, grey skin. His eyes are bloodshot and devoid of the amazing intellect, devoid of anything that made Sherlock the man that he is. He looks like one of the corpses at Bart’s morgue.

“Sherlock...” John’s voice breaks. He tries to kick Sherlock off, but the man seems impervious to pain and inhumanely strong. As in slow motion John watches as Sherlock places his hands on his abdomen. The band-aid has come off and the bite wound is black and oozing fluid. Without warning Sherlock rips him open. The searing pain nearly makes him lose consciousness. A shout of pain escapes John.

“Sherlock! Stop!” he tries once more. But no recognition shows on Sherlock’s sagging features. One hand is in John’s abdomen and with the other Sherlock pulls out a bloody intestine. As Sherlock takes a bite, John starts screaming.

**Author's Note:**

> So yes, this happened. In my mind Sherlock and John roam the streets of London as a kick-ass team of zombies now. Until Warm Bodies happens and they turn back to being human. What can I say, I'm an optimist.


End file.
